The Daughter of the Wolves
by spotted.paw
Summary: A child grows up within the Witchking's lair. And there's a rumor about Elven Twins who have the most abhorrent blood flowing through their veins.


"Once there was a great Emperor in the East, a mighty Elf of tremendous power that had been abandoned by his people. And there was a Shieldmaiden, who was of old Númenorean Blood. Fate meant her to marry a Man of Gondor, the Steward of the White City. Yet love forsaked her, for soon she came to despise the Steward, and later fell for the fading darkened Elven Ruler, who was about to loose the battle of His lifetime and diminish forever. Long had she lived amidst the Gondorians in misery, unable to bring forth an heir to the Steward that could claim his place on the Throne of Minas Tirith. Yet when she met the falling Emperor there were two children born, girls, beautiful Elven twins.  
  
One bore hair as white as the snow you see falling on a quiet winter's day, the other one as black as the nightly sky over the Mountains of Shadow. In fear the Steward looked at them, children of the Dark Lord, and in his mind he saw them, little Devils, greedy for his Throne and the glory of the White City. And he wanted them dead. Yet he feared his heritage threatened without an heir of any kind, so he decided to keep one of them as an assurance, whilst killing the other.  
  
The fading Emperor sensed the threat and sent out a Knight to save his little Angels. But it was almost too late. One of the children had diminished in the dark caves beneath the White City. The other one he managed to tear from the claws of the Steward's troops. Grief-stricken the battleworn Warrior took in his arms the black-haired twin and bore her away on his steed. No-one knows what became of the Elven twins, if the Black one will ever go back to Minas Tirith, or if the White one ever found her way out of the dungeons."  
  
Blood. Blood all over me. Drying on my lips. On my cheeks. On my eyelashes. On my lids. On my hands. I feel it bittersweet on my tongue. Pure red.  
  
Snow. Falling on my hands. On my lids. On my eyelashes. On my cheeks. On my lips. On my hair. On my steed's mane. On its fur. Pure white.  
  
Blood drips from my lifeless knuckles and falls into the snow. It is so beautiful it makes me cry. My left eye has once, long ago, been severely damaged. A blade has cut it into two. Now it is bleeding again. The pain is almost overwhelming. Tears and blood mix on my face, and fall down from my chin, onto my hands and from there, once again into the snow.  
  
The horse under me is weary. Its uneasy steps carry me towards Minas Morgul. Towards home.  
  
I have fought hard. And won. I never doubted that. But what was the price? The way before me is ever so long and I have no hope to reach my destination. I sense the damage done to my body, to the body of my precious steed. I feel the blood inside my lungs. I feel the pain of wounds of blades that have pierced my flesh from the outside, and the pain of wounds of my broken bones that have pierced me from the inside. I have no strength left. And yet there is a call inside me. An assurance. You will not die. You cannot. And so I carry on, at times on horseback, at times pulling the steed alongside me.  
  
Something is stirring in Minas Morgul. Maybe the Witchking sends someone out to meet me. To save me. To bring me home. But ... no. I know him, and he knows me. Never would he send rescue for me. Never would I accept it. This is what it is like. Our hopes are low, yet our spirits high.  
  
Days and nights go by. I see a pale moon rise and set behind dark hills whilst my horse sets one wary foot before another. Its heart is huge. It would give its life to save mine. And so we move on.  
  
I do not know how, but we reach the black towers of Minas Morgul. I feel the horse shaking as it enters the courtyard. It goes down under me, bringing forth an almost human moan. We fall into the snow. I cannot stand up. Just close both my eyes. So we lie there, bleeding. I hear the Witchking approaching, and with him the other eight. It will be alright now. They will take care. I will sleep now.  
  
Weeks pass by, I regain strength and the will to live. The Witchking sits silently by my side, still, not moving, holding my hand. He does not utter a word, nor does he even move his head or eyes. But I hear his subtle voice inside my head. He speaks Black Speech. He taught me to understand it when I was a little kid. He speaks in a way only he and I understand. Tells me a story he has been telling me ever since I was born. Well known words. After some time, I fall in and talk along with him, until the tale is finished. He looks at me and smiles. After a while, he opens his mouth and says aloud: "Tell me your story." And I close my one untouched eye, to remember what has come to pass since I left him.  
  
In many ways he is a father to me. Although he is not. I never had a family. At least no-one ever told me who it was.  
  
I have some memory of my birth. No faces. Yet I remember the softness of the white cloth on my naked skin. The strength of the huge, red-eyed horse. Bearing me away. The faceless cape of the black rider. A hoarse voice telling me it would be alright. Always he would make things alright for me. So the child grew up inside the black walls of Minas Morgul ... nine wraiths to be my guardian angels.  
  
In the tower of the Nazgûl the child lay in a cradle of black stone, bedded down on white furs and silk, in a hall of black marble so huge and cold. The Witchking withdrew from my chambers, and in came eleven wolves, black and grey and silver. Leading their pack was a she-wolf with a black face, as well as paws and a tail of deepest grey, her body enfolded in a coat of silver fur. She and her pack gathered around me to warm me with their fur, to feed me and to accompany me wherever I would go. They were, from that day on, my grey shadows, the grey company on my heels.  
  
I never said a word or shared my thoughts until my first birthday, when I suddenly opened my mouth and spoke. Although I was able to understand and utter every word there was from the first day. In fact I never spoke much until I met a Marshal of the Riddermark, only some years ago. I did talk to the Witchking, yet mostly without ever moving my lips. The other eight never approached me during my first year amidst them. They dared not, I think.  
  
Often I would sit in the endless halls of the library, my black skirts spread out on the floor, hundreds of slim, white candles burning in holders of iron, surrounded by books containing all the knowledge and lore of the Ancient World.  
  
And then I would sit with the Nine before the fireplace, on the floor, next to the Witchking's seat of black stone. They would stare silently into the flames, some nights for hours and hours to come. But then they would speak. Once we were Kings, great Kings of Men. They would talk about their kingdoms, about their wars, about their knights. Sometimes they came to speak about their families, about love, and then always their white faces would turn pale, paler even than I could bear. I would cry then, and sometimes they would cry with me.  
  
The Witchking taught me many a language, the tongues of Men, many an Elven tongue and many of the languages of Old, yet most important he considered the tongue of Númenor. "Númenor is as much in me as it is in you. Númenor is as much your fate as it is mine. And even if it was not, I am of Númenorean blood, and it is also in you. It's your heritage, and it is your future." So I learned to speak the tongue of Númenor, while we were riding in the Montains of Shadow and on the vast empty plains of Mordor.  
  
I learned to ride before I was able to walk, and I learned to wield a sword before I learned to touch my face with my hands. The Nine were great teachers, yet I sensed even then that I would grow to be a much better rider and fighter than anyone of them. "For that reason", the Witchking told me on my sixth birthday, "I give you the best horse you will find amidst these lands.", and he brought forth a huge black steed, blacker than night, with a mane longer even than my arm, stronger than one hundred Men, and lighter footed than a golden leaf. It was Ainu, the Witchking's own mare. She came from the stables of the dark Tower Barad-dûr, an Elven horse, ageless and full of wonders. Her name, translated from ancient Qenya, meant "angelic power", and that was her.  
  
And he lay before me a sharp blade of silver, more beautiful than the surface of the milky moon in a starry sky. Its hilt and handle were carved and decorated with the most beautiful ornaments of Black Elven craftsmanship. "It bears no name, but I have carried it through all my life. Today, I give it to you, my child. May it now be yours, and maybe it will soon be given a name that speaks of your power." And so we mounted our horses and set off, me listening to his voice in my head, telling me of the days of old, the First Age, the War of the Ring, the Elves coming to Middle Earth across the Great Seas, and about men, men of Númenor, about Kings and Wizards, Dragons and Spirits. This is what it is like.  
  
I often left the save walls of Minas Morgul, on Ainu's back, accompanied by my grey shadows, to live in the wild, and to travel to other lands of Middle Earth. I rode from Harad to Eriador, from the Ered Luin to the Sea of Rhûn, to Gondor, to Rohan, and Mirkwood, and to the Iron Mountains. Then I went on to explore the North and East and South, often leaving my nine fathers and the homely plains of Mordor for days, months and sometimes even years.  
  
Only this time I have been gone for a much longer time. I have left the Nazgûl for 26 years. I had not planned that, initially. Ainu and I left, just another time, the wolf-pack silently following. Fate brought me to Rohan, once more. I had been there several times before. I had talked to people, who had come to marvel at Ainu.  
  
The folk of Rohan love horses, and horses are what I love, so I come to love Rohan and its people. I, for my part, marvel at their craftsmanship and decorational skills. I always feel welcome there. So once again I travel to Edoras, where I know the halls of Théoden King. I have met him before and he became a friend to me.  
  
Only this time it is someone else that welcomes me. Éomer, the King's nephew, meets me at the gates. He has grown into a man since my last stay. I have not changed, at least where my looks are concerned, as I ceased to change a long time ago. I am ageless, like the Elves, like my Elven mare, maybe a little like my marble Kings of Old, my Nazgûl fathers. "Who are you?", he screams. I think he would recognise me, but my black hood hides most of my face. His horse is huge, yet it is no match for Ainu. I laugh out loud and look down at him, from under the hood. "Have so many years passed and have I changed so much, little boy Éomer? I am Veryangarmëe, who came from the East, and I have been with you when you were a child. I have taught you how to ride." He throws a stern glance at me. I laugh again. "Well, if my appearance has faded from your memory completely, you must remember Ainu at least, for she is the most marvellous steed you have ever beheld." While saying that I remove the hood from my face. Éomer's face lightens up. "Now I do recognise you! The daughter of the wolves! Welcome back to the city of Edoras, my uncle will greatly rejoice in your coming." 


End file.
